A short story collection about life in a small Nebraska town.
By Kenny Miller
(c) Copyright 2000 All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced without permission from the auhor.
HEY LITTLE MAN
"Have you noticed how quick he is?" the frisky dad asked his wife as he bounced into the kitchen after putting his three-year-old son to bed.
"He has to be quick with you chasing him around the house throwing that football at him," she said as she wiped the kitchen counter dry and turned around to see her husband shadow boxing in front of her.
"It's more than chasing, honey," he said. "He's got good instincts. He's quick and he isn't afraid of the ball when I throw it at him. He catches it. He is going to be a great quarterback. I can see it already."
"Don't you think it is just a bit early for him to go out for football?"
"It's never too early. He is going to be a great athlete. I can just tell."
"That sounds like a father talking."
"A jock father," he said as he gently grabbed his wife's face and gave her a kiss.
"Well jock father, let's call it a day," she said. "If you keep bouncing around down here, he'll want to come down and play."
"I don't think so," he said. "He was pretty tired. Did he seem a little groggy to you tonight?"
"Groggy?" she asked. "No, I didn't think so. Why?
"He just seemed a little slower than he usually is," the father said.
"That's because as soon as you get home, you start chasing him all over creation with that football."
"He's going to be great and quick because of that my dear wife, just you watch and see."
She shut off the kitchen lights and the two of them headed up the steps for bed. He opened the door to his boy's room and they both peeked inside. Their little blond, blue-eyed boy was sound asleep, one arm clutching a scruffy Teddy bear and the other holding the corner of a worn out baby blanket. His dad gently closed the door. Morning and fun with his young son would soon come.
"Hey little man," his dad said as he peeked into his boy's room the next morning. His three-year-old son was playing with a green toy farm tractor and a couple of brown plastic cows. The boy sat on the floor in his Gene Autry pajamas; complete with painted guns on the sides.
"Hi daddy," the boy said as he turned and smiled.
"Ready for some oatmeal? It will help you grow up and be a big strong quarterback."
The boy smiled, gathered up his tractor and plastic cows and looked around for his brown tattered blanket. He pushed himself off of the floor with his right hand. He seemed to teeter a little as he tried to stand and then fell backwards.
"That's too much stuff for a little man to carry," his dad said as he sat down on the floor and brushed his son's blond hair. The boy's forehead felt hot. He watched his son reach out across his body and try to pick up his toy tractor with his right hand. He looked at his left hand, which was closest to the toys. It hung limply at his side.
"Here little man," he said as he put the toy tractor in the boy's left hand, "push it with this hand." He noticed beads of sweat forming on the boy's forehead.
The boy dropped the truck instantly. His left hand and arm fell limp to his side.
"I can do it with this one," the boy said as he smiled at his dad and reached over with his right hand.
"No, push it with this hand."
He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the boy's forehead and placed the back of his hand on the boy's brow. He had a fever, a very high fever. The boy looked at his dad and his lower lip pushed out as he started to cry.
"I can't push it daddy," the boy said. "It hurts."
He scooped up the boy and bolted out the bedroom door and down the stairs. The boy put his right arms around his dad's neck but his left arm hung limp at his side.
"Are you guys ready for some breakfast?" his wife said as she heard the usual morning sound of her husband and son bounding down the stairs
Her smile faded as she noticed the look on her husband's face. She had never seen that look before.
"Oh God what's wrong?"
"He's burning up and something is wrong with his left arm," he said as he headed for the back door of the house and the car. "I'm taking him to the doctor."
She could see panic in her husband's face as he jogged for the car, holding his son close to his chest as he ran. She knew something was terribly wrong. She had never seen that look of fear in his eyes. He wasn't one to be afraid.
"Wait! Wait! Oh God wait!" she hollered out as she ran after them. "What is wrong?" she said as she jumped into the car and took the little boy from him. He started the car and sped away kicking street gravel up in a spray as the tires grabbed at the graveled street.
The big black 1949 Ford(r) came to a screeching halt and double-parked in front of the doctor's office. He jumped out of the car, opened the passenger side door and helped his wife and little boy out of the car. They hurried up the three steps that lead to the doctor's office waiting room. They didn't have to wait long. The country doctor saw them come through the door. The doctor knew real fear when he saw it.
"Bring him in," the old doctor said. He looked at the boy through his glasses, slid down on his nose, "aren't feeling so good, little guy?"
There was a trace of vomit on his dad's shoulder. The doctor touched the back of his hand to the boy's forehead as the father placed him on the examination table.
"I was playing with him this morning and noticed his left arm was hanging at his side and he couldn't hold onto anything with his left hand. I think he is running a fever and he just started to vomit a little."
"Here, young lad, grab hold of this stick," the doctor said as he held a tongue depressor for the young boy to grab. The boy couldn't do it. The doctor pulled the thermometer out of the boy's mouth and checked his temperature--105 degrees.
"I want you to take him to Saint Joseph Hospital in Sioux City right now," the country doctor said as he turned to the worried dad. "He could have polio. I'll call and make all the necessary arrangements. Keep wet towels on his forehead. I'll have the nurse get some for you."
"Polio?" the young dad said as he looked at his wife. "You think he has polio?"
"I am not going to take a chance," the doctor said. "The sooner you get him to Sioux City, the better chance he will have."
He looked at his wife, her lips quivered and her eyes were bulging out of her head. She looked at her little boy and back at her husband and then took him from his arms and pulled him next to her bosom.
"He can't have polio. He just has the flu. He can't have polio," she cried.
"Well, I hope you are right but let's not take the chance," the doctor said as he opened the door and called for his nurse.
"Get me some cold towels and some ice water," he told the nurse. "And get me a little coke syrup if we have any."
She was back in a minute or two and they started down the hall toward the front door. The nurse handed the dad the towels and a small bottle of coke syrup.
"If he starts to vomit a lot," the doctor said, "give him some of that syrup. The fewer people who come into contact with him now, the better the chances are that the infection won't spread."
"Get going but be careful," the doctor said as he walked them to the front door, "there is no time to waste."
Tears were running down her face and her bottom lip still quivered as she tried to understand what the doctor had told her. A war was on. Micro piranha where attacking inside of her son's body, eating away at him just like they would devour an innocent fawn who had stumbled into their waters.
The little boy put his right arm around her neck as they turned and started down the steps. The smell of medical alcohol filled the air as the nurses were busy trying to disinfect everything in the office.
The doctor made one last visual check of the little boy as he watched them hurry to the waiting car.
"There is a good chance we have detected it early enough that they can do something for him," the doctor hollered out.
She looked at the little boy's face during the hour-long drive to Sioux City. His hot beads of sweat were joined with her tears as she wept. She cradled the sick youngster in her arms brushing his blond hair. She wiped his brow with the cold towels. She was prepared to stay for as long as it would take.
His father switched his gaze from the road to his wife and boy. He watched their every move.
She held him tight and put her chin over the top of his head. If the Angel of Death was coming for her little boy, the angel would have to pry him loose from her arms.
"Are you the folks from Hartington?" the hospital nurse asked.
"Yes," the father answered.
"Your son will be placed in a special unit so you will need to come with me back outside. We will be going to a special white building beside the hospital. They are waiting for us there. Please put these on," she said as she handed them white cotton masks. The nurse put on some gloves and put a mask on the boy. He shook from chills.
The plain white building had a heavy metal door and one picture window. Above the door was a sign. Isolation Ward-Authorized Medical Personnel Only. To the right of the door was a button with a sign that read, push for service.
The nurse pushed the button and the door soon opened.
"Is this the Hartington boy?" the doctor at the door asked.
"Yes," the nurse answered.
The doctor reached out for the boy. The boy's mother pulled her son away.
"I'll carry him in," his mother said.
"I'm sorry," the doctor replied. "The infection risk is too high for you to come in. We'll take good care of him."
"No," she cried as she pulled him tight against her chest. "I'm coming in with him."
"I'm sorry," the doctor said sternly, "you can't come in."
"Give him to me," her husband said as he turned to his wife. "We are wasting time. Give him to me!"
She looked at him. She could see the stern look in his eyes. She looked at her son, now covered with sweat and shaking from fever. She released her grip ever so gently as her husband took him from her arms and handed him to the doctor.
"As soon as we know something, we'll let you know," the doctor said as he took the boy. "There is a waiting room in the main hospital. Someone will meet you there and explain everything. We have to go now."
The doctor gently held the boy against his chest, wrapped the blanket around his body and turned away. The door closed behind him.
They went back to the main hospital and waited for most of the day before word came.
"Your son does have polio," another doctor said as he looked up from the chart. "There isn't much we can do for him right now but make him comfortable and let the fever run its course. It appears his left side is involved."
"Will he be OK?" the anxious dad asked.
"We don't know right now. It's just too early to tell," the doctor said as he took off his glasses and sat on the edge of the magazine covered coffee table. "We'll just have to wait and see."
"He isn't going to die is he?"
"I don't think so. He seems like a strong little guy and has a great will to live. There will be some damage but it is too early to tell what and how much damage there will be."
Nothing would be known for a couple of days and there was no place for them to stay. The doctor told them to go home. Since polio was an epidemic, they would be quarantined for two weeks to be sure they had not caught it. They would be modern day lepers trapped in their own home, not able to be with their boy now gripped by a disease without a cure.
If he lived through the next critical days they could soon stand in front of a one way mirror, which faced a playroom, and watch him play with the hospital toys. At his age of three, it wasn't long before he forgot who his parents were even though they spent days looking through that one way glass. For all practical purposes, his doctor became his dad and his nurse became his mom.
The doctors watched and battled as the disease took aim at various muscle groups in the young boy's body. The damage was done. Unlike so many others, he would live. He would walk again. This little boy would never be perfect but he would be lucky. Finally, the hospital called. Their son could come home. They could begin their long journey to a normal.
"He'll need daily physical therapy so the muscles in his back and legs don't atrophy," the doctor said. "Our physical therapist will show you what to do and give you a schedule when you should do it."
"What are the long term effects going to be?"
"He won't have much mobility in his left arm and hand," the doctor continued. "When he is a little older we may be able to help him with some orthopedic surgery. We may be able to rebuild his hand and arm to give him more use of his hand and increase his gripping power, but for now, we must concentrate on trying to build up what muscles we can."
"Will this therapy be painful for him?"
"Yes, but it absolutely has to be done or he may not be able to walk. There is a great little guy in that little damaged body," the doctor continued. "He has been the darling of the ward. All you have to do is reach down deep inside and help him bring out his best. They will bring him over here in a few minutes. Best of luck to you."
"Thank you for everything doctor," the dad replied.
As the doctor walked down the hall, the double doors to the main hospital opened. He looked at the sun filled hallway and could see a nurse and a little boy walking toward them.
He slowly stood up and watched as the little guy and his nurse made their way toward them.
"Here he comes," he said as he reached down and touched his wife's shoulder. She turned suddenly and got up. She started down the hallway toward the boy.
"Wait," he said as he sank down to one knee, "wait, please wait."
The boy walked slowly, almost with a stumble as the nurse bent over and watched his every move so he wouldn't fall.
"Hi little man," he said as he got closer. "Ready to go home?"
The boy stopped, looked up at the nurse as though he was asking for permission to speak and look at the man kneeling in front of him. He hadn't seen this man or this woman for six months.
"Go ahead," the nurse said. "It's your daddy, go ahead."
He dropped his grip on the nurse's hand and stood by himself, gathered his balance, and looked at his dad. He looked at his boy. He could see fear and confusion in the little boy's eyes as he struggled to stand. He saw the metal braces on his legs and the brace on his left arm. His heart sank to his feet but he knew he couldn't let his son see it. He couldn't let this little guy know he wasn't anything other than little man. His little man. He stopped his tear and held out his arms.
"Ca'Mon little man," he said. "Let's go have some breakfast."
The boy smiled and shuffled toward his dad falling into his arms. He picked his son up spun him around until the boy started to giggle-the same way he giggled when his dad chased him around the house.
He would be part of his son's struggle. He would be his mental crutch until the day his son could throw his self doubts away. He would give him his strength until he could develop strength of his own. He knew his son would face mountains but he would teach him how to climb. He would hold this son up to the gentle wind and if his son wanted to fly, he would release him to freedom. His son was finally going home, alive and safe, and free to forever play in his dad's grateful soul.
"Daddy," the boy said as they cleared the front door of the hospital, "can we have oatmeal for breakfast?"
"You want to have oatmeal, little man?"
"Uh huh," the boy said as he put his wrapped and braced left arm around his dad's neck. "I need oatmeal so I can be a big and strong quarterback."
